Chapter 4
Chapter Four
MAYA
W hen I wake up again, my is body stiff and sore in places I’d rather not think about. The room is bathed in the soft glow of dawn, light filtering through the partially drawn curtains.
Logan lies beside me. He must have returned after his temper tantrum was over. His body presses against mine despite the massive size of the bed. He is turned on his side and facing away, but his back is flush against my side, body heat seeping into me.
Still sulking from what happened, but unable to stop himself from remaining close to me.
I’m suddenly wide awake and unable to stomach another minute of being in this bed.
Shifting carefully, I pull myself into a sitting position, expecting him to wake at even the slightest movement. But he barely stirs, just makes a soft sound in his throat before settling deeper into sleep.
Unable to resist the sudden urge, I study Logan’s face as he sleeps.
Without his typical expression of princely disdain, he looks different.
Younger. Less intimidating. The hard lines of his face have softened.
Without an arrogant smirk, the sensuous curve of his full lips slightly parting with each breath.
Dark lashes rest against the high swell of his cheeks, casting shadows across the sharp plane of his jaw where the skin appears impossibly soft despite the fuzz of overnight beard growth.
He looks almost sweet, vulnerable in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It’s jarring to see the man who’s been nothing but domineering and cruel appear so peaceful, so human.
His chest rises and falls with each breath, steady and deep. There’s a small scar near his collarbone that I hadn’t noticed before, pale against his tanned skin. A reminder that even Alphas break and bleed.
This is the time when he is at his most vulnerable, when it would be easiest to hurt him.
He had refused to allow a servant in to clean up the glass.
One of the larger shards could easily get the job done.
A single jab to that pulsing point in his neck where arterial blood is just below the surface.
But something stops me.
It isn’t that I care that Logan’s death would likely drag Cillian, then me, along with him.
It isn’t that I have any hope for the future.
How can I kill a man who looks so much like an innocent baby tucked away to sleep in its crib?
A lock of his hair has fallen across his forehead, and I’m struck by the absurd urge to brush it away. I clench my fist instead, digging my nails into my palm until the impulse passes.
This is the same man who claimed me against my will. Who took my body while I slept. Who believes he owns me simply because biology and circumstance have conspired against me.
And yet, he looks so innocent in sleep that I can’t help but wonder who Logan might have been in another life.
One where he wasn’t born a prince, where the weight of the crown and kingdom didn’t rest on his shoulders.
Where he hadn’t been taught from birth that Alphas take what they want, consequences be damned.
I surge out of the bed, desperate to escape Logan’s proximity before my thoughts travel any further down that dangerous path. My feet hit the cold floor with a soft thud, and I freeze, glancing back at the sleeping man. He doesn’t so much as stir.
Taking shallow breaths, I back away from the bed, putting as much distance as possible between us. Now that I’m fully awake and standing, I take in my surroundings properly for the first time.
Logan’s room is exactly what I’d expect of a royal bedchamber, and somehow not like I imagined it.
The space is massive, with high ceilings adorned with intricate crown molding.
A chandelier hangs from the center, crystals catching the early morning light.
The furniture is all dark wood and gold accents, from the enormous four-poster bed to the matching nightstands and dresser.
But for all its opulence, the room feels entirely impersonal.
There are no photographs, no trinkets or mementos.
No books left open on side tables or clothes tossed over chairs.
Nothing that speaks to who Logan is beyond his title.
It’s like a museum display of royal living quarters rather than someone’s actual bedroom.
My gaze lands on a closed door on the far wall. It doesn’t lead to the bathroom or hallway, so it must lead somewhere else.
A compulsive force pulls me forward. I cross the plush carpet, wincing as my bruised body protests the movement. When I reach the door, I hesitate, hand hovering over the ornate handle. What if it’s locked? What if it triggers some alarm?
Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle. It gives way easily, swinging open without a sound.
I step through into a room about the size of a large closet.
But it’s not storage, it’s another bedroom.
A small one, only slightly larger than a walk-in closet and with none of the grandeur of Logan’s chambers.
The space is warm, lit by a soft lamp in the corner that someone must have forgotten to turn off.
Unlike the prince’s sterile quarters, this room feels lived in.
A small writing desk sits against one wall, littered with traditional paper rather than a tablet.
Pens and pencils are scattered across its surface alongside what looks like sketches.
A worn leather jacket hangs on a hook by the door.
A pair of boots stands neatly beneath it.
My eyes move to a twin bed pushed against the wall, where a familiar form nestles under a pile of blankets and pillows. Cillian. His pale hair splays across the pillow, his face relaxed in sleep.
Something twists in my chest at the sight of him. Not just because of our bond, but because of the stark contrast between his quarters and Logan’s. This tiny room attached to the prince’s chambers speaks volumes about their relationship, about Cillian’s place in Logan’s life.
It’s bad enough that Logan insisted on keeping their bond a secret, he couldn’t even do Cillian the damn courtesy of letting him have his own room.
Always close at hand. Always available. But separate. Secondary.
I might actually pity Cillian if he were anyone else.
I move deeper into the room, drawn to a small bookcase crammed with actual paper books, a luxury few people bother with anymore. My fingers reach out to touch the spine of one particularly worn volume.
“Don’t touch that.”
I jump, heart leaping into my throat as I spin around. Cillian sits upright in bed, fully awake now, his ice-blue eyes fixed on me with a glare that could freeze fire.
“Sorry,” I stammer, pulling my hand back like I’ve been burned. “I didn’t mean to?—“
“What are you doing in here?” His voice is rough with sleep but sharp with irritation. The blankets have fallen to his waist, revealing a bare chest marked with old scars I hadn’t noticed before.
What am I doing in here?
I just stare at Cillian, my mouth slightly open, no words coming out.
Why did I come in here, opening that strange door instead of fleeing Logan’s room entirely?
I could have hidden with Ares, whose sexually charged behavior is at least predictable, or do the smartest thing and run back to the harem where no Alpha is permitted to follow without permission.
Instead, I came in here and I stayed.
Cillian’s harsh expression softens slightly as he studies my face. The ice in his eyes melts just enough to reveal something else beneath. Curiosity, maybe. Or just some form of unwilling understanding.
“Did you come looking for me?” he asks, voice quieter.
I open my mouth to deny it automatically. Of course I didn’t come looking for him. That would be ridiculous. But the words of denial stick in my throat
Maybe I didn’t mean to go looking for him, but I still haven’t left the room.
“Why are you here, Maya?” he softly asks.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit, instinctively wrapping my arms around myself despite the warmth of the room. “But I couldn’t stay in bed with him.”
Obviously, the him in question doesn’t need to be spelled out.
Cillian pushes a hand through his pale hair with a sigh, making the strands stick up at a dozen different angles.
“It’s the bond,” he says, his mouth twisting like he’s tasted something bitter. “It pulls you toward your mate when you’re distressed. It’s just instinct. Not something you can help.”
The fact that he sounds as unhappy about it as I feel cools my anger a little. He didn’t ask for this either. The realization settles uncomfortably in my chest.
Looking at him more closely, I realize just how tired he looks. Dark shadows under his eyes are a sharp contrast to his pale skin.
“I hate it,” I whisper, and I’m not sure if I mean the bond, the situation, or all of it.
“Join the club,” he mutters, then looks up at me properly. His eyes track over my face, down to my bandaged hand, and then back up to my face. Whatever he something shifts in his expression. Not softening exactly, but opening, like a door cracking just enough to let in a sliver of light.
Without a word, he raises the edge of his blanket, creating a space beside him in the narrow bed.
I hesitate, staring at the offered spot. Every rational part of me screams to turn around, even if I can’t think of anywhere it makes sense to go. The thought of returning to my lonely harem jail cell after so many nights in the apartment feels considerably worse than this.
My feet move forward of their own accord. One step, then another. The bond tugs at something deep inside me, a primal need for comfort that overrides logic and pride.
The bed dips as I slide in beside him. It’s barely big enough for one person, let alone two, forcing us to lie close together. A welcoming heat radiates from his body. The clean sharpness of his scent floats around me like I’m relaxing into a cloud of it.
We lie there stiffly, not touching but close enough that I can feel each breath he takes. The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire.
“This is messed up,” I finally say, staring at the ceiling.
Cillian makes a sound that might be a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“I didn’t want any of this,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I didn’t want to be claimed by Logan. I didn’t want to bond with you. I just wanted...”
“Freedom,” he finishes for me, his voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I turn my head to look at him, surprised. His profile is sharp in the dim light, all angles and edges, but his expression is distant, almost wistful.
I find myself whispering, unwilling to break the fragile peace. “How did you know?”
He turns to meet my gaze, and for a moment, I see something in those ice-blue eyes that mirrors what I feel.
Trapped. Angry. Resigned.
“Because it’s what I wanted too.”